


Signs Of Something More

by tubbyk



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15760257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tubbyk/pseuds/tubbyk
Summary: D'Artagnan observing Aramis & Porthos and noticing certain extra things about their friendship.





	Signs Of Something More

In the end it was Porthos who gave it away. 

It seemed surprising that it wasn’t Aramis. D’Artagnan was getting used to his bouts of reckless abandon and, like Athos, came to periodically expect some sort of alarming revelation through incautious rashness as a matter of course. 

Aramis. A man who spent his days flirting with the world, embracing everything and everyone with equal gusto. The garrison joke was that it was a wonder he could shoot straight because he certainly couldn’t stand straight. He was a poser and a draper, shifting his stance as often as he shifted his attentions, perpetually transferring his weight on to one leg or the other, jutting a sword-laden hip out, draping his form over the shoulder of his friends, slumping with equal ease against a doorframe or a person. Bending to his whims, wherever, whatever and whoever they may be.

But ultimately it was Porthos who gave it away. Porthos, with his steadfast demeanour, his dependability and loyalty a grounding force, a man who drew attention when his character strayed minutely from its course, such was his balance and surety. His stance always reflected his character: upright, proud, solid, ready, watchful, careful, so when he did something even slightly adrift from the norm it was noticeable. 

So, as d’Artagnan studied them that night in Lyon, he was fairly sure of what he saw. Understood the implications if not the exact manoeuvrings of what two men did when they acted intimately.

For intimacy was what he perceived when Porthos gave Aramis _that_ look. He’d seen flashes of it before, usually hidden behind a lowered hat or a raised cup, a flicker of something, nothing lasting, but in Lyon it was blatant, exposed and desiring of everything and anything Aramis had to offer.

Even Aramis had the good grace to giggle and hide his own feelings behind his cup of wine, but Porthos kept his stare blazing and hot and d’Artagnan swore he heard a low accompanying growl to go with it. 

There was a sharp movement under the table and suddenly Porthos’ hungry growl turned into a sharp yelp.

He sent a scowling look to his left where Athos sat demurely cradling his cup of wine, unflustered and with a look more withering than apologetic. 

“I’ll kick you again if you don’t start remembering where were are and who is watching,” Athos had warned.

At first d’Artagnan thought Athos was referring to him, and he coloured accordingly but as he watched Aramis scan the room with his wine-softened gaze he understood that it was the other regiments, the soldiers they weren’t familiar with, who were the cause for concern. 

Indeed, that night wasn’t the first time d’Artagnan had seen signs of something more between Porthos and Aramis.

One night, months ago, as Porthos disappeared into Aramis’ quarters to continue drinking - as they were oft inclined to do - he bade them goodnight then glanced back and saw them smile and reach for each other in the second before the door swung shut. It may have been nothing more than a friendly, drunken hug. Aramis especially was nothing if not tactile in his expression of friendship, but something about that one moment made d’Artagnan halt and stare at the door, replaying what he’d just seen, querying the way Aramis had reached up to slide his hands around Porthos’ neck, sighing contentedly, the way Porthos wound his arms around Aramis’s back and made to pull him close even as he dropped his head and whispered something into Aramis’ ear which made him laugh delightedly. 

There were times, on missions, when the days away from Paris dragged on and they all found themselves yearning for the garrison, for their own quarters, for privacy, for some assured comfort, when Aramis would glance up at Porthos and fix him with a gaze of such intensity that no matter what Porthos was doing he would turn his eyes to Aramis and meet the look, understand the silent message behind the darkening eyes and seem to soak up and draw in the intent with a deep, shuddering breath. 

Sometimes, there would be a single look between them then they would simply just get up and leave, dropping the task at hand or leaving their wine glasses unemptied. Sometimes Athos would intervene with a significant look of his own, or a phrase that signified caution – “soldiers are everywhere” or “we are all being watched” – and sometimes he would simply say “two days and we will be back in Paris” and their gazes and thoughts would all be filed away at the observation. 

All these little looks and moments added up to something more than was usual between two musketeers, even ones the whole of Paris noted as being the best of friends. 

Now, here, returning from the battlefield only to encounter a second attack by bandits on the road to the inn, chaos reigned as d’Artagnan fought his own battle to settle his emotions and find a purpose to help as Porthos carried Aramis’s bloodied form across the room then lowered him gently on to a low bed in the corner.

The injury had already festered for two days with the physician and both medics taking mortal wounds themselves and the only other medic lying here now, feverish, roughly tended to on the field by his friends who floundered to cope with the severity of his injury and the hellish conditions. Porthos had protected Aramis as best he could when the bandits attacked but the slice on his shoulder sluiced blood and d’Artagnan couldn’t miss the flinch when Porthos wiped it away then stared at the bright red smear on his hand. His jaw set tight and it was clear that a decision had been made in his head although what it was remained a mystery to d’Artagnan. 

At least now they were in the shelter of an inn and they had clean water, herbs and the landlady was preparing potions and brews which she swore were tried and true family remedies. 

“It will need to be stitched properly now,” Athos said, skimming his fingers over the roughly stitched mess on Aramis’ chest. 

“You need to do it.”

D’Artagnan looked at the large dark hand gripping his shoulder and heard the words as a request, a command and a plea all mixed together. 

“Athos can’t,” explained Porthos grimly, “His hands are the surest by far with a sword but they utterly fail at needlework. My hands ….doing that to him, watching …. I can’t.”

It was daunting and not the stitching of small gashes and slices that Aramis had made him practice on. This was a serious wound, deep, already turned raw and nasty and it was going to require way more than the half dozen stitches which d’Artagnan was used to applying to flesh. 

“You can do it. You had a brilliant teacher,” came Aramis’ soft voice before he bit back his words with a cry of pain.

“I told you to _shuushhh_ ,” ordered Porthos, trailing a hand over Aramis’ damp brow and smoothing down his hair. He kept his hand there, stroking gently and urging quiet with soft noises of comfort as Aramis fought to control his moans of pain.

As d’Artagnan readied the needle Athos helped Aramis imbibe a good quantity of rum then tried to clean the wound, making Aramis buck and bite back screams through gritted teeth. 

“I’m not sure I can do this if he isn’t still,” worried d’Artagnan. “Perhaps we should knock him out?”

If d’Artagnan had suggested a joint garrotting of the queen and the dauphin he couldn’t have provoked a more outraged reaction. Athos went paler than normal then looked wide-eyed at Porthos, who bristled then made to lunge forward, thunderous with rage. 

It was only a tinkling laugh and a feeble hand clutching at his chest which checked him, Porthos looking down at Aramis and immediately softening his mood as he saw the weak smile there. He met it with one of his own then sent a quick scowl up at d’Artagnan, but a tutting noise drew his gaze back down to the bed again where dark, tired eyes blinked to stay conscious, but creased in amusement as they studied Porthos’ changing expressions. 

“Leave the poor boy be, Porthos.”

“He suggested … he _said_ ….”

Another scowl from Porthos then a hum of amusement in reply from Aramis, who turned his head towards d’Artagnan and shot him a sympathetic smile laced with pain and exhaustion. 

“You really must forgive my friend. If my face were to be damaged he wouldn’t find me nearly so pretty.” Aramis turned back and blinked slowly at Porthos, the rum working it’s magic to make the words slip slowly and softly from his lips. “Heaven knows I should surely fade away if my Porthos refused to love me any more.”

As Aramis finally surrendered to unconsciousness, Porthos gently kissed his forehead then murmured, “Stop lovin’ you? That’s not possible.”

Athos slid his eyes sideways and snuck a quizzical look at d’Artagnan, but it was met with a very Athos-like stare of indifference which elicited a small smile. 

“Double check that he’s out,” demanded Porthos as he moved back to let Athos examine Aramis. 

As soon as it was confirmed that he was indeed, unconscious and likely to remain that way for some time Porthos reached for his weapons belt, nodded at his comrades, then turned and stormed through the door, shoulders rolling and fists balling around his sword with extreme intent. 

D’Artagnan blinked. 

“Umm, dare I ask where he is going?” With Aramis so badly injured, Porthos deserting him was the last thing d’Artagnan would have expected. 

Athos sat down next to Aramis and took his time fussing over the wound then rested a gentle hand on his arm. 

“Porthos has never been able to watch while his friends are stitched. He has entrusted you and I to take care of Aramis.”

“And Porthos is …..?”

“Going to take care of the men who hurt Aramis.”

“Ahhh. The bandits.”

D’Artagnan stared at the door where Porthos had made his exit and frowned. 

“Excuse me again for seeming slightly alarmed. There were five of them. Shouldn’t one of us at least go to help him?”

“That would seem the polite, practical, safe thing to do,” agreed Athos, “however years of experience has taught me that Porthos works best alone with his own tactics and motivation in this particular situation.”

At d’Artagnan’s continuing frown Athos added, “He takes avenging Aramis very personally. And nothing focuses his talents more than when someone has drawn Aramis’ blood and caused him pain.”

 

\----------------------

 

True to Athos’ word, Porthos returned less than five hours later. He showed no sign of injury but his hands were covered in dried blood. 

“Not mine,” he confirmed as he scrubbed it off with a wet cloth. Once clean he was drawn straight to Aramis’ side, not offering any account of his mission and at a glance from Athos, d’Artagnan knew it pertinent not to bother asking. 

Athos drew up a chair beside the bed and they both frowned as Porthos slid a thumb over Aramis’ forehead. 

“Has he said anything?”

“Not a whisper.”

“He’s starting to burn.”

“I know.”

“Can’t afford to get a fever now. He’s too weak.”

Athos didn’t bother to answer. His head dropped fractionally and he rested one hand on Aramis’ leg and the other on Porthos’ shoulder. 

D’Artagnan felt his heart drop. They had all had their fair share of injuries and perilous misadventures, but when one of them was struck down by a malady or wound they always had Aramis hovering close to offer medical help. They weren’t all completely useless. Nobody spending years on a battlefield was completely ignorant of basic doctoring. But Aramis studied, he watched and read and queried the physicians and he practised his art so often that the physician was rarely called even when available. 

The fear now was raw and real that their collective lack of medical knowledge could leave their comrade open to peril and it hurt to not be able to fix this with the swipe of a sword or the blast from a musket. Porthos had done everything he could do with fists and fury but now he was left helpless and adrift, hunched forward so his breaths caressed Aramis’ skin and his hand gently stroked through his unruly hair. 

Athos stood and drew d’Artagnan away, guiding him on to one of the beds across the room. 

“Leave them now. Get some sleep.”

“Shouldn’t we stay on watch in case Aramis wakes?”

“Porthos is with him. He won’t sleep until Aramis is out of danger. You and I will do best to rest well now while we can.” 

 

\--------------------------

 

D’Artagnan didn’t rest well or long and every time sleep escaped him he opened his eyes to check on Aramis and Porthos was right there, sometimes just sitting by him, a hand on his arm, sometimes inspecting the wound, other times soothing his brow with a damp cloth, and now, he was hunched forward, bracing himself over an agitated Aramis, leaning in so their faces were close.

“ _Shhhh_. I’m here. Stop talking. You need to sleep.”

“I don’t. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I might not ever wake up. Porthos, I can feel it. Death is whispering to me. It’s here.”

There was a long pause. By the light of the flickering candle d’Artagnan could see the desperate look wash over Porthos’ face. The sudden stillness as his heart froze at the words, at their meaning, trying desperately to assess their accuracy. 

“You got a fever, ‘Mis. That imagination of yours is takin’ over again.”

“No, no, it’s not. You don’t understand. This is my time! It’s my time!”

The next words were muffled, stifled, d’Artagnan saw, by Porthos leaning down to Aramis, whispering assurance and comfort and physically showing the same by holding him close. 

“I’m not ready to die!” 

That cry made d’Artagnan throw his blanket aside and sit up, fear now high in his chest. Athos had already lit a candle and was moving quickly over to the bed where Porthos was bent over Aramis, cheeks touching, cradling him, trying to soothe him. 

“Hold me, Porthos. Keep me here with you. I don’t want to die!”

“I’m holdin’ ya. I am!”

Desperate, Porthos threw off his bulky uniform and his shirt then stretched a leg across the other side of the bed and climbed over Aramis, turning in and settling down beside him so they lay length to length. 

“Look, I got you. I’m here. I’m not leaving you and you’re not leaving me, ya hear?”

Porthos slid a hand over Aramis' shoulder then splayed his fingers out across his chest, one finger tenderly skirting the edge of the bandaged wound. 

“I can feel your heart beating. It’s strong. You’re strong.” At Aramis’ denial, a rough shake of his head, Porthos continued. “Can you feel my heart beating? ‘Cos I’m beside you, you can feel my skin next to yours and I know you like that. I got you, and I bet you can feel my heart beating in time with yours too.”

There was only a moan of distress in response and Athos leaned in and felt Aramis’ forehead. He shot Porthos a worried look. 

“It’s taking hold.”

“Help me get behind him.”

Together, Athos and Porthos quickly manoeuvred a groaning Aramis so he was lifted as Porthos shifted to lay behind him, gently lowering Aramis’ head back onto his shoulder. 

“That’s better,” the big man murmured, nodding his thanks at Athos then settling back into position and stroking Aramis’ chest with his hand. “Now where was I? I think you were telling me about my heartbeat.”

“Please don’t. I can’t … _can’t_ ….”

“ _Shhhhh_ , yeah, you can, ‘cos I got ya. I’m here, I’m holding on to you and we’re both okay. Your heart’s beating strong and I know you can feel mine if you try. ‘Mis, lean back, listen, feel it beating in time with yours.”

He waited and Aramis gasped out a cry of distress once more and tried to wriggle free but Porthos held him gently, patient and still. 

“Can you feel my heart?” he repeated softly, again and again, every time Aramis cried out or tried to struggle.

Finally, Aramis shut his eyes tight, stilled momentarily and put his hand over Porthos’. 

“I think … I think I can.”

“Good, that’s good. Now keep listening to it. Concentrate on it.”

“Porthos, I’m scared.”

Porthos stroked his fingers through Aramis’ hair and kissed his temple then gave Athos a meaningful stare.

“Nothin’ to be scared of here. Look, we’re all here with you.”

Athos knelt beside the bed and picked up Aramis’ free hand, kissing it and holding it to his chest. 

“I wouldn’t dream of missing your dramatics, my friend. How else would I experience life’s histrionics if not through you?”

“You almost made Athos crack a smile then, ‘Mis,” teased Porthos, “He must be gettin’ soft in his old age.”

Aramis shuddered and gasped out something unintelligible, which had little to do with Athos’ smile. The two men shared another concerned look then Porthos kissed Aramis’ hair, then his cheek, letting his lips rest there against the burning skin, nuzzling, trying to bring comfort. 

Wanting to help in some way, any way, d’Artagnan came forward with a glass of water and a damp cloth to sooth Aramis’ brow. Porthos eyed him as the cloth came over and pressed against Aramis forehead, then he kissed the cheek again and shifted his lips back to Aramis’ ear. 

“The whelp’s here too ya know,” he whispered, loud enough for all to hear.

Aramis seemed to consider that for a long moment, swirling the words around in his overheated mind. Then he concluded with a sweat-shimmered frown, “d’Artagnan?”

“Mmm hmm. I think he’s worried ‘bout ya.”

Aramis moaned and struggled, with Porthos finally letting him go to see where he would settle, which ended up being curled into his side, his face buried in Porthos’ neck, hands clenching in pain on his broad chest, whimpering softly. Porthos uncurled the fingers on one of Aramis’ hands and fanned them out on his chest. 

“It’s still beating. Feel it. Don’t be scared.”

“I need you to hold me, Porthos.”

He was already of course, but he gave Aramis’ back a rougher rub to emphasize the fact then cupped his chin and kissed roughly into his hair. 

“Always,” he assured him, then he mouthed words at Athos, asking if he should keep Aramis awake or try to make him sleep. Athos shrugged, then made a yapping movement with his hand and mouthed “Until he calms.” 

Porthos raised his eyebrows then nodded his agreement and gave Aramis a squeeze. He bit his lip and took time constructing his words, then smiled as Aramis threw a leg over him and burrowed even closer to his body. 

“Ya know, somebody’s gonna get a whippin’ after all this is over,” Porthos crooned into Aramis’ ear. He looked up and winked at his friends. “’Cos the whelp’s there, watchin’ us, watchin’ you snugglin’ up like a newborn kitten and apparently he’s not completely dumb – Porthos waited for the expected eyeroll from d’Artagnan and wasn’t disappointed – ‘cos now I can see that the cogs are tickin’ and he’s lookin’ and wonderin’ and a part of him thinks that maybe, just maybe you and I are a little bit more than just best friends.”

A distressed moan came from Aramis and he flexed his fingers on Porthos’ chest. 

Porthos frowned with concern and d’Artagnan saw that he struggled to keep the wicked teasing tone in his voice as he sighed theatrically and said, “It must seem bleedingly obvious to him who the wife is in our relationship.”

Aramis’ punch was feeble, but Porthos made an oof as if he’d been downed by a front-on hit from a streetfighter. The relief was obvious in his expression when he heard Aramis’ oft-repeated-in-private complaint, “I am _not_ the wife!” then Porthos and Athos exchanged a look and chuckled in a moment of respite at what was clearly a long-running joke between them all. 

“So ‘Mis, my dilemma is what to do about all this? Do I punish d’Artagnan for discovering our secret or do I punish you for being so terribly indiscreet in your time of ill health that you’ve endangered us both?

“Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.”

As a heartfelt sob broke from Aramis’ lips more looks were exchanged. That the threat was taken so seriously only proved to them just how sick and delirious Aramis was.

“Hey, hey, sweet thing, _shhhhh_ , you’re bein’ silly now. Look at you, all teary ‘cos I was teasing.”

“Don’t hurt him.”

Porthos arranged Aramis then shuffled down so he was staring at him face to face. He brushed away some damp locks of hair then cupped Aramis’ jaw and stroked his cheek gently with his thumb. 

“C’mon. Open your eyes and look at me. No, don’t cry. Just look at me. I’m here.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t help smiling as Aramis opened his eyes and gave Porthos a teary, unhappy grimace. 

“You’re a terrible patient.”

“It hurts.”

“I know. And you had a bad cold and then a bad injury on the field then them bandits got you as well and now you’re runnin’ a fever that’s scarin’ the bejesus out of you and terrifying the rest of us almost as much.”

“Don’t let them take me. I’m not ready.”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” Porthos reassured him, not bothering to clarify who ‘them’ was.

“Don’t hurt d’Artagnan.”

It made Porthos smile, but he promised, “I won’t.”

“Promise you won’t leave me.”

“Never.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“You know.”

“That you’re a shit cook?”

“No. Tell me.”

“That I know it was you who raided Treville’s alcohol cabinet on your birthday because Athos dared you to?”

Porthos grinned up at Athos knowingly. 

“Don’t tease me.”

“That … the leg wound you had last month that you claimed was the result of an ambush was actually caused when you fell over a bucket in the stables.”

This time it was d’Artagnan who received a chuckle and a nod from Porthos. 

Aramis moaned unhappily and wrapped an arm around Porthos’ back, drawing their foreheads together. 

“Tell me. Please tell me. I need to hear it.”

“Well, I don’t know. Will it make you drink another potion to let you get some sleep?”

”I can’t. I won’t.”

”Not even for me?”

”I’d do anything for you.”

”Then drink this. For me. Please ‘Mis.”

“I don’t want to, but …. maybe? If you tell me?”

“I’ll tell you if you promise me you’ll drink the medicine and not fight sleep.”

“Will you …?”

“I’ll stay here, I won’t leave you, I’ll look after you, I won’t hurt d’Artagnan … _much_ … I’ll protect you from whatever you imagine you need protecting from, I’ll make sure you wake up in the morning and I’ll make sure your heart keeps on beating and yes, Aramis, I’m telling you now, like I always tell you, I love you.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Now mean it.”

“I love you.”

“I’m in so much pain.”

“I know. Now hold your head up a bit and drink this. And I love you.”

“I think the fever is making me imagine things.”

“Crazy things. Yet still I love you.”

“Kiss me.”

Porthos had the good grace to hesitate and cast an appraising glance up at his audience. Athos had immediately risen and turned away to head off to his bed, a small smile visible by the flickering light of the candle he held. 

D’Artagnan smiled after him then realised that Porthos had now turned his gaze to him, an eyebrow raised quizzically. 

“Oh, I’m not watching. I’m going to bed too. I don’t want to see that. I mean, not that I mind. There’s nothing wrong with it. Men kissing. You kissing. You kissing men. Especially Aramis. Not that I think you’d kiss anybody else. But if you did it would be fine. Well, except if Aramis found out. I don’t think he’d like that. And then I guess I might mind too. Not that it’s wrong but …. _Erghh!”_

As Athos tightened his elbow around d’Artagnan’s neck to stop his babbling speech and forcefully guided him away from his friends he caught the sound of deep, throaty laughing behind him. 

Candles were extinguished, Athos and d’Artagnan took to their respective beds and settled down to sleep, but it eluded d’Artagnan for quite some time as he lay and listened to the gentle murmurings of Porthos from across the room. Every so often he’d make out Aramis’ voice, tones of distress sometimes evident, but not as urgent or desperate as before. 

The last thing he remembered before slumber finally took him was the sound of Porthos’ voice urging sleep to Aramis and reassuring him of his presence and his love. And that seemed comfort enough for all of them to give in to the night.

 

\--------------------

 

It took five days before Aramis felt well enough to attempt the ride back to Paris. He was in pain, but the feverish ramblings of that first night had abated and the banter and mood more resembled their average daily repartee rather than the intimate reassurances d’Artagnan had witnessed. 

Athos and d’Artagnan rode in front with Porthos behind keeping a close eye on Aramis to signal when he needed to rest. None of them left it up to Aramis to tell them when he required help as they all knew that was a fruitless exercise. 

Not one known to move for the sake of moving or speak for the sake of speaking, Athos was usually a quiet companion on the road, so d’Artagnan noticed when Athos fidgeted and began commenting on various trite passing subjects. First it was the weather, then the species of bird zooming across their path, a comment on the differences in the local dialects then something about the many varieties of poppies in bloom in the region and their respective colours. 

It was very unnerving and d’Artagnan was at a loss to know what malady had afflicted Athos to make him witter on so uncharacteristically. 

He was just wondering if Athos was beginning to develop a fever too when a guffaw and a giggle behind him made them both look around. 

Porthos nodded at Athos with a broad grin. 

“Small talk ain’t your strong point, is it?”

“Yet it’s extremely amusing, so please continue,” urged Aramis with a smile.

“Or he could just get straight to the point.”

“Well yes, that would seem to be what he’s working up to.”

We may well die of old age before he gets to it.

They both grinned again and Porthos nodded at Athos. 

“Just fucking get on with it and tell him. You know we’re dying to hear what’s gonna come out of your mouth.”

Athos huffed and turned his eyes back to the path ahead, ignoring the laughter behind him and the quizzical look beside him.

It took some time but finally Athos shot a look sideways at d’Artagnan and held him with a discerning gaze.

“Your friends – those horrid people behind us - have tasked me to speak to you about their … _history_.” 

“Oh,” d’Artagnan replied, then thought about it for a moment before raising his eyebrows high and repeating with animation, “ _Oh!_ You mean their …. _history_.”

“Precisely.”

“And they can’t tell me about it themselves because ….?”

“Because Aramis lies and exaggerates and the way he tells it I’m a lovesick puppy.”

“Because Porthos refuses to accept that I barely noticed him until he began stalking me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I wasn’t stalking you! And besides, I didn’t need to stalk you, ‘cos you were too busy throwing yourself at me.”

“I have never thrown myself at anyone.”

“Every time I turned around I’d trip over you.”

“Now look who’s exaggerating.”

As the bickering continued Athos sent d’Artagnan a long-suffering grimace.

“That’s why _I_ have to describe it.”

“Which one of them is right? Did Porthos stalk Aramis or did Aramis throw himself at Porthos?”

D’Artagnan was aware that it had fallen silent behind them as everyone anticipated the answer. 

“As you’d expect, in the beginning it was something quite different that neither of them would now admit to. Porthos may have noticed Aramis, but all he saw was a prancing dandy, over-preened, highly affected and most importantly to him – someone undoubtedly useless and a liability on the battlefield. I’m sure a small part of him must have acknowledged that Aramis must have had some merit as a soldier for him to have garnered a musketeer pauldron in the first place, but he was obviously dismissive because of his appearance.” 

“So strange that you should note that about Porthos of all people.”

Athos acknowledged the observation with a smile. 

“Our friend Aramis never fails to point that irony out to him.”

There was a snort behind them, then a delighted laugh, but when d’Artagnan looked over his shoulder his friends had regained their composure and merely stared back at him with barely disguised smirks. 

“So when did it all change?”

“I was injured in a battle,” said Athos, with a sigh. “Badly. Took a lance to my side which almost bled me out. Aramis helped the physician until there was nothing more he could do medically. Then he put down his scalpel, picked up his weapons, turned on my attackers and took his frustrations out on them.” Athos glanced over his shoulder and smiled knowingly. “That was the first time Porthos saw what our feisty little Spaniard could do and very impressive he was I must say.”

Aramis grinned and doffed his hat at the compliment. 

“Porthos was impressed?”

Athos actually laughed. “Immensely so, although stunned might be a better description. It was the first time he forgot to be gruff towards any of us and the expression of wonderment on his face as he watched Aramis singlehandedly take apart the large group of Spaniards with pistols, swords, his hat, a tree branch and everything else at his disposal was a sight to behold.”

“So that’s when they became friends?”

“Oh no. They first had to spend a good six months mutually admiring each other from afar, lobbing coquettish glances across the garrison which I must say regularly disturbed my delicate sensibilities.”

“You’re so full of shit!” came the exclamation from behind.

“Porthos, such language! Did you not just hear Athos describing his delicate sensibilities?” reprimanded Aramis. 

D’Artagnan looked over his shoulder again. 

“And you Aramis? When did you first notice Porthos?”

“Oh, immediately.”

Aramis looked to his left and gave Porthos an appraising look. 

“One glance and I knew this beautiful brute had to be mine.”

“You’re even more full of shit than him!”

“How dare you dispute it,” chided Aramis, placing his hand on his heart then leaning dangerously in order to slap it on to Porthos’ knee, giving a grunt of pain at his overexertion. “I walked out of Treville’s quarters to observe the new recruits training below and there you were, hoisting and lobbing men across the courtyard as if they weighed no more than small children. I was smitten.”

“You were a pest, not just to me but to everyone,” protested Porthos. “All I wanted was some peace and quiet, some time and space to settle in, yet every time I left my room there you were, flouncing and wafting about like an affected maiden, trying to impress anyone who would listen about your tremendous qualities.”

“I do not waft,” sniffed Aramis. “Flounce, yes, but I have never once found it necessary to waft.”

“Wafting, flouncing, prancing, preening. What a nightmare. And no matter what I did I couldn’t shake you.”

“Shake me? Who was it who turned up at my lodgings in the middle of the night claiming to have been locked out of his room? The same room that I discovered later was without a lock?”

“That was an honest mistake. I was very confused.”

“So confused that you knocked on my door five nights in a row?”

“I didn’t see you kicking me out.”

“I’m far too polite to refuse refuge to a visitor.”

“Uh huh. And do you launch yourself at all your visitors? Push them back against the wall and kiss them like your life depended on it?”

“My dear Porthos, you are clearly devoid of your senses if you think it was _me_ who accosted _you_. I distinctly remember being manhandled across the room before you brutally kissed me. I swear my lips were bruised for a week.”

“No you don’t. You’re not pinning it all on me. You flirted with me until I had to do something in order to shut you up.

“Ah, so you stalked me to make me stop flirting.”

“I did not stalk you.”

“You trailed me to Madame Prillet’s house.”

“That was one time.”

“And I saw you outside Madame Bouchard’s.”

“That was coincidence.”

“Really. So what about Madame Veucher’s residence? It was way over the other side of Paris. You can’t claim that was coincidence.”

“Look, you’re a ridiculous excuse of a musketeer. If I didn’t keep an eye on you then you wouldn’t last two seconds.”

“Ahh, so all those times I’ve saved you over the years have meant nothing? I’ll remember to sheath my pistol and look the other way the next time you’re about to get garrotted.”

The banter continued for many miles until finally the back and forth petered out. 

Porthos gave a soft whistle and nodded at Aramis when his friends stopped and looked back. 

“Our brave little soldier has finally run out of puff,” he observed fondly as Aramis tried to stay upright and not slump forward on his horse. Porthos leaned over and squeezed Aramis’ knee. “We’re not far from Paris but there’s an inn ahead where we can stop. Can’t have you falling off your horse after everything you’ve been through, can we?”

Aramis grunted but made no attempt to speak and Porthos and Athos rode either side of him for the rest of the short trip to ensure he didn’t fall off his horse. When they reached the inn Porthos waited patiently as Aramis tried to dismount without assistance but in the end he gave up and toppled down into Porthos’ arms with an exhausted sigh. 

“The beauty of it all is that we’ll have so many new things to tease Aramis about after this journey,” observed Athos with a wry smirk as he patted Aramis on the back then passed by to secure a room for the night.

A room was all they had, but it was big enough for four to bunk down in, especially as Porthos deemed that he and Aramis only required a single space between them. 

Aramis said little and was asleep even while Porthos still fussed over him and tried to get him to take hold of his senses enough to drink another draught of potion to stave off any ill effects of the fever. 

Athos went to tend the horses which they all knew meant he was heading for the nearest bottle of wine he could find and that he would be back many, many hours later.

“I could go too,” offered d’Artagnan, “I mean if you’d like some privacy.”

It brought a smile to Porthos’ face then he outright beamed as his gaze shifted to Aramis, who was boneless and snoring, form splayed out on the small bed.

“Stay. I’m not gonna get any sense out of him for many hours. Besides,” he said, fixing d’Artagnan with a steady look, “I think we need to clear up a few things.”

At d’Artagnan’s raised eyebrow he shook his head and held up a soothing hand. 

“Nah, nothing bad. I just wanted to tell you ….wanted you to know ….it’s ….” Porthos huffed and tried again, “I appreciate it. You, not gettin’ all strange about … us.”

“You’re my friends,” shrugged d’Artagnan. 

“Sometimes that’s not enough. Not nearly enough.”

“It is for me.”

Porthos let out a breath and nodded his thanks, then stared at Aramis and shook his head. 

“Look at him. Of all the weird creatures who’ve become musketeers he must rank among the most unlikely.”

“You doubt his skills?” d’Artagnan couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. 

“Nah, course not. He’s one of the best. But in other ways he’s so innocent.”

“Aramis, innocent? I’ve never ever heard anyone describe him as innocent.”

“Innocent in the way he welcomes in the world. He throws open his arms and his heart and he lets everybody in then dares them to let him down. Complete opposite to me. I don’t let anybody in unless they prove ‘emselves first. My defences are always up. His are always down in case he misses someone special passing by.”

Porthos gently brushed back a wayward lock of hair from Aramis’ cheek. 

“I was fascinated when I first met him. Thought he was ridiculous, that much is true. All peacock feathers and frippery and fussin’ over his moustache even more than his weapons. But somethin’ about him kept me mesmerised. Couldn’t take my eyes off him. I still don’t think he realises when it all changed for me. He knew I cheated at cards, laughed himself silly every time I cleaned up and didn’t get caught. Always defended me when I did get caught. That didn’t change anything for me. We all stuck up for each other back then. But one time when I was challenged someone called me ….well, I’m not gonna repeat it but it was about as bad as it gets and it included my mother and the colour of our skin. I’d heard it all before, of course, but Aramis … he was so utterly shocked, so outraged and horrified on my behalf, I’ll never forget the expression on his face. And I realised then that not once had it ever occurred to him to not be my friend because of the way I looked or because of where I’d come from. I was still sitting there like a stunned mullet with the cards in my hand when he flattened the last of the men who’d insulted me and he steamed with fury all the way back to the garrison, not understanding why I wasn’t also livid with rage.”

“Is that when you first felt something for him?”

Porthos thought about it then shrugged.

“It’s the first time I realised that he was someone who came from another background and attacked life from a different direction than I did, yet strangely, had ended up in exactly the same place, loving much the same things as me. Two musketeers who loved fighting, loved life, loved proving our skills and our loyalty.”

Smoothing down another lock of hair, Porthos cupped Aramis’ chin with the barest of touches. 

“It was the start of a good friendship born then, but not more. Not yet. That came after Savoy. He was so changed, so rejecting of life and friendships, so hurt by that prick Marsac’s abandonment and by the loss of his brothers. I couldn’t stomach seeing him so suspicious of the world. Not Aramis. I couldn’t lose him to the darkness that he was letting himself fall into. So I made it my mission to fight for him like he fought for me after that card game. I wanted my happy, mad, absurd friend back.”

“And you made it happen?”

“Eventually. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t easy. But I stuck with him, watched him, helped him get through the days and nights until one day, there were glimpses of life, then a bit later there was a smile, then a laugh, then the suggestion that we go for a drink, then he wanted me to show him how to cheat at cards, then to test his sword skills to see if he’d gone rusty. After that life seemed easier for him. Something about him is still more guarded than it was before, but in my book that’s not a bad thing. He’s always too vulnerable for his own good.” 

Aramis murmured something insensible and rearranged his limbs in another haphazard fashion then stilled as Porthos hovered watchfully. When he was at peace again and snoring softly, Porthos glanced up at d’Artagnan. 

“He’s my world, you know. It’s so stupid for us to be musketeers and to feel this way when we’re so close to death every day, but he’s everything to me. He patches up my body when I bleed and he heals my heart and soul when I falter. If I’d lost him to that fever ….”

“You didn’t. We didn’t.”

Porthos took some deep breaths to compose himself then lay down beside Aramis, careful not to disturb him. 

“Get some sleep, boy. Oh, and one more thing….” 

D’Artagnan looked up to see a grin laced with wickedness spread across Porthos’ face. 

“For the record, _he_ made the first move and kissed _me_ , not the other way ‘round. Just so you know whose fault all this is.”

 

\------------------

 

When d’Artagnan awoke it was still dark. The light from a single candle showed Aramis fossicking around the floor. 

“What have you lost? Can I help?”

Aramis started at his voice then held up a cup in one hand and the other he held to his bandaged chest. 

“Good grief, you scared me. I woke up deathly dry and in need of water.”

Taking the cup from his hand, d’Artagnan scuttled around until he found the jug then filled and refilled the cup for Aramis as he drank.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, if not fully recovered.”

“You tired yourself out bickering with Porthos.”

Aramis hummed his amusement and looked fondly at Porthos, who was curled up on his side, back against the wall, arms crossed protectively in front of him, sleeping as he lived, on guard all the time. 

“Forgive our patter. We indulge in that sort of teasing when we’re alone. It’s rare …. _nice_ … to be able to use it around others.”

“It’s not so different to your usual banter, and I think of myself as more of a friend than an _other_.”

Aramis nodded approvingly at the correction and tugged the blanket further up over Porthos’ shoulders. He drew his hand away then seemed to reconsider the move before placing it back and rubbing his knuckles gently over Porthos’ neck. He gave d’Artagnan a scrutinising look, but found only a soft smile in response. That made him nod, confirming something. 

“He saves me every day, you know.”

It was said so softly that d’Artagnan almost missed the words. 

“Porthos? How?”

A small smile played at the corner of Aramis’ lips as he wound a tight curl at the base of Porthos’ neck around his little finger. 

“He reigns me in, he urges me on, he tends to my soul like no other knows or cares to do. Porthos is the constant in my life. My family, my best friend, my lover, my life.” 

Aramis ducked his head and stole a small moment of privacy for himself before quietly continuing. 

“Before Savoy, I knew Porthos for many months, found him tremendous fun, hugely entertaining. A wonderful soldier and someone to whom I’d always trust my back in a fight.” He hesitated, shaking his head slowly. “We were friends. Maybe even good friends. But not intimate. Not like that and not in any way, really. After Savoy …. “ Aramis licked his lips and frowned, “… after Savoy I was broken, a wreck adrift in a world I suddenly found cold and harsh. Some people were suspicious of me, some were sympathetic without knowing how to help, some simply let me be and trusted I would work my way through my problems in my own time. Porthos, who was not my best friend, not my closest confidant, not someone who had any insight into the demons I fought before and after Savoy, he wasn’t scared of my pain, he didn’t judge me and he was there for me.”

D’Artagnan didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask questions. He could see that the memories were both fond and harsh, emotions flickering back and forth in Aramis’ expression.

“Porthos didn’t offer counsel. He didn’t try to make me do or say anything. But he saw me struggle in all aspects of life after Savoy and he nominated himself to be my shadow and my keeper. If I drank to excess he was there to carry me home. If I forgot to eat a plate of food would miraculously appear in front of me. I was restrained when I raged and lifted when I fell from grief. And one day, when I forgot to avert my eyes from life and I finally looked up at the sky and the world going on around me, there he was, my Porthos, waiting patiently.” 

Aramis fussed with the blanket some more then looked at d’Artagnan and his eyes were shining damp with memories. 

“There I found my best friend. Someone who would always look out for me, no matter my folly or my outlook. Someone who I would defend to the death, who, when he’s wronged, stirs a ferocity in me that I cannot quell until the mistreatment has been redressed. Then long after that, assuming no more between us than we already had, I nearly lost him. The scar on his eye nearly took his sight, the one on his chest nearly took his life. I have never been so scared. To see a man such as Porthos, laid low, a breath away from hell’s capture, it shouldn’t have been so shocking really, not for me, not after everything I’ve seen on the battlefield. But I was petrified because suddenly I realised what I wanted and what was important to me. I’d found love and it came in the form of Porthos.”

“And he wanted you too?”

Aramis suddenly narrowed his eyes at the sleeping form, a knowing smile forming.

“Naturally. Porthos was always besotted by my ravishing good looks and superior talents.”

There was a snort and the mound under the blanket shifted.

“I was really enjoyin’ all the nice things you had to say about me. Now you’re being absurd.”

“It’s very rude to listen in to conversations that involve you.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a bad, rude, inattentive man.”

“That you are,” agreed Aramis, patting him on the chest and trying hard to stifle a yawn. 

“Look now, you’ve done yourself in again with all your yammering. Come on, lie back down and get some sleep. You too, whelp.” Porthos added, nodding over at d’Artagnan. 

“I thought we were about to get to the part where you kissed for the first time. Instigated by Aramis of course,” d'Artagnan added, his face a picture of innocence as Aramis shot him a glare.

“Excuse me? Instigated by who?”

Porthos gave an evil chuckle and winked at d'Artagnan while Aramis wasn't looking. 

“You heard him. _You_ kissed _me_.”

“Ah, noooo. I distinctly remember it was _you_ who kissed _me_ first, Porthos.”

“You’re dreamin’. As if I’d do that. The fever has definitely affected your memory.”

“My memory is quite fine, thank you. And I can vividly recall you mauling me with no prompting on my part at all.”

“No prompting? The whores of Paris had nothing on you when you were givin’ me the come on.”

“As usual, you are a terrible exaggerator, Porthos.”

“Maybe, but _you_ kissed _me_ , not the other way ‘round.”

D’Artagnan grinned and rolled back over on his bunk. He doubted either of his friends had realised that the whole last part of their exchange had happened while they were holding hands.


End file.
